“You know, like a things-to-do-before-you-croak list. Like your biggest goals. Your dreams.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I mean, I did before…But there’s nowhere near enough time.”
“What do you mean there’s not near enough time?” Mary said, still sitting on the couch playing with the rubber band.
“Mary, mind your own business.”
“Oh wait. Are you like dying or something? Let me guess. Cancer? Did you know cancer is the second leading cause of death? But just barely. Heart disease is only slightly—”
“Shut up, Mary,” I said. Then turning to Adrien, “Tell me anyway.” I dumped the macaroni noodles into the boiling water. “We might be able to do one or two before…”
Adrien rattled off a long list while I sliced the jack cheese. Some of it was the usual stuff: visit Europe, go sky-diving, swim with dolphins, learn Taekwondo. Some of it not so common: try Ethiopian food, live in a tree house for a year, meet his favorite writers, kiss a girl at the very top of a Ferris wheel. He smiled a little as he said the last one, making me blush. Then, after a moment, he added, “And of course it’s been a longtime dream to have a book published.”
When the macaroni was finished, I pulled a bag of salad and a bottle of ranch out of the fridge. “Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “Crap, we’re out of soda. There’s a vending machine in the hall downstairs—”
“I’ll grab some,” Adrien said, rummaging through his pockets, pulling out some loose change.
“That would be great,” I said, grabbing a couple of heavy ceramic plates.
“Be careful Adrien, thirteen people are killed by vending machines every year,” I heard Mary say as he slipped out.
***
“I haven’t modeled before,” Adrien said, laughing as we climbed several flights to get to the rooftop.
“You don’t have to do anything fancy. Just be yourself,” I said, touching his arm. Our eyes locked and I let my hand linger for a moment. The way he looked at me—it was almost penetrating—so I finally had to look away and unfortunately, I let a childish giggle slip. After I composed myself, I pulled my Nikon out of the bag, adjusted the aperture and began shooting immediately.
He lifted a hand to shield his face. “Wait, you’re already taking pictures?”
“Of course. The candid ones are always the best.”
“What do you want me to do?” He bit his lip. I snapped another picture.
“Let’s try a few with you sitting here on the ledge.”
“Sit how?”
“However you like.”
Obediently he sat, shifting back and forth until he found a comfortable position. My heart sped up when I saw how dangerously close he was to falling off the fifteen storey building. “Careful,” I said. “You’re not supposed to kill yourself for another two weeks.”
“Ha, ha. You’re quite the comedian,” he shot back. He scooted forward a few inches. The muscles in my face relaxed.
It was a mild summer evening. Big mashed potato clouds hung in the perfect blue sky. A gentle breeze combed through my hair, caressed my face and tugged gently at my shirt. The weather couldn’t have been more ideal for a photo shoot.
I studied every square inch of his face as I snapped hundreds of photos. I have to admit: this was the perfect excuse to stare at him for as long as my heart desired. His eyes. The way they’d reveal such sadness, an aching, haunting sadness one minute, then light up full of sheer joy and child-like wonder the next. His coveted bone structure—his prominent cheekbones and perfectly sculpted jaw. The way his lips curved downward when he was deep in thought, but broke into a huge sloppy grin when I made him laugh. The subtle cleft in his chin. The teeny, tiny scar just below his left ear. His messy chestnut hair. His hands. I couldn’t get enough of those hands.
“You have a little cheese in the corner of your mouth,” I said, flat-out lying. He used his right hand to brush the side of his mouth and I took several shots.
“When’s your next show?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I have one this Wednesday,” I said. “Actually it’s my first solo exhibit. But don’t be too impressed. I have connections. My aunt’s best friend owns the gallery.”
“That’s cool. This Wednesday? Where?”
“Red Street Gallery. At seven. You’re more than welcome to come. If I can get these printed and framed fast enough, I’ll probably use a couple of them,” I said, pausing to admire my last shot on the camera’s screen.
“I’d love to come,” he said, watching me so intently, it made my stomach do a couple of flips. “So, how long have you been taking pictures?”
“Since I was eight. My parents bought me a cheesy princess one for Christmas. It was bright pink.”
“I’m trying to picture you as a little girl.” He smiled a smile that lit up his whole face.
“I still have that camera. I have this quirk—I can’t get rid of any of my cameras. They’re like my babies. I just get so attached. You’d think I’d given birth to the little beasts.”
He laughed, clearly amused. “How many of them do you have?”
“I think I have thirteen now.”
“Thirteen cameras? Wow. I get it, though. I feel equally passionate about writing. I have these notebooks. A whole box of them. I can’t bring myself to throw any of them away. Although maybe I should. Some of my older stuff is terrible.”
“What do you put in them? Poems?”
“Yeah, poems. Thoughts, ideas. Ideas for books, for characters and plots. Doodles.”
“Do you think I could read one of your stories?”
His eyebrows rose. He pursed his lips. “Sure. Someday.”
Someday? What did that mean? For Adrien, there wasn’t going to be a someday.
As the sun melted into the cityscape, it painted the sky a brilliant orange-pink. “It’s beautiful,” I said, taking a few photos of the surreal backdrop.
As Adrien turned to me, the remaining rays of sun cast a warm glow on his perfect face, making him look angelic. I moved the camera upward and took several shots as he studied my face.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a gentle hand through my hair, his thumb tracing the contours of my face. As he did this, his eyes pierced mine, digging deep, deep, deep into my soul, making me quiver. I sucked in a sharp breath when he placed his hand around mine and gently pulled the camera away from my grip. He took a step toward me, nearly closing the gap between us and turned, throwing his arm around my waist, his hand brushing my hip. Turning the lens on the two of us, he pressed the shutter button, immortalizing our brief moment together in this mortal experience, this thing we call life.
16
“You’re late, Missy,” Chris said in an animatedly stern voice, waving a finger at me.
I busted out laughing. Chris acting stern—well let’s just say it doesn’t work.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing a mop, dunking it into the soapy water.
“It’s so unlike you. You’re never late,” he said, pulling his hair back with a rubber band.
“It’s true. I’m never late.” I couldn’t hide the goofy smile on my face.
“Ahhh…You were with that guy, weren’t you? What’s his name? Julian? Aidan?”
“Adrien. And yes, we spent the day together.” And it was a near-perfect day, I added mentally. Probably the best since Abby died.
“Sounds like you’re getting serious. What did you do today?”
“We ran some errands and then we had lunch at my place. I made my mean four-cheese mac—”
“Not the famous mac. You must really like this guy.”
I bit my lip. “I think I do like him. He’s really great. He wanted to see my work. He loved it. He couldn’t stop raving. And then he agreed to model for me, so we did a shoot. On the roof of my apartment, actually. We sort of lost track of time.”
“He modeled for you? Oh yeah, I remember. He’s super hot. Ughhhh.” Chris stopp
ed wiping down a wall to make a face.
“Oh, come on. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been acting jealous lately,” I stopped mid-mop to watch for his reaction.
“I’m not jealous. No way.” Chris rolled his eyes and threw his dirty rag at me, hitting me in the face.
“Hey, not cool.” I began swinging my wet mop at him, splattering soapy water everywhere when my phone rang. “Hello?”
“Tem-Tem?” It was my sister April. She was the only one who called me that.
“Hey April, what’s up?” Knots began forming in the back of my neck like they did every time we spoke. My sister and I had the classic love-hate relationship. If anyone knew how to push my buttons, it was April.
“I was just calling to ask you to bring a dish to Mom and Dad’s party. Oh, bring your spinach quiche. You make the best spinach quiche. In fact, I was just telling John that.”
I cringed. I hated hearing her say his name. She sounded so possessive of him. I guess he did belong to her now, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I tried to keep my cool. “Spinach quiche. Done. Should I bring a dessert?”
“No, the dessert is taken care of. Oh and Tem-Tem? I need to know if you’re bringing a date. It would be helpful to have a head count.” I heard a condescending note in her voice. She loved it. She loved that, as far as she knew, I haven’t dated since John. And she loved being the one John wanted. The one he chose.
“My boyfriend might have something that night. I’ll let you know soon.” I bit my lip. I hated lying—and I usually wasn’t the lying type—but I couldn’t stand it when she was smug.
“Your boyfriend?” She was clearly shocked. There was a long pause, followed by a laugh. “September, you and I both know you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” I hung up, rage mounting inside me. Hot, angry tears fell from my eyes. I pushed them away, hoping Chris wouldn’t see.
“September, are you okay?” he said, hovering over me, looking cute and awkward.
“I’m okay.” I shook my head. “No, I’m not okay.”
“What’s wrong?” He lifted his arms. They formed an oval shape for a second. Apparently he was debating on whether to come in for a hug or not. That’s something we hadn’t done yet—hugged. And then he dropped them.
I turned away, embarrassed by the tears. I hated crying in front of an audience. Chris had only seen me cry one other time.
“September, come on, what’s wrong?” I managed a moan. Suddenly his strong arms wrapped around me. I caught my breath. It felt amazing just to be held, for the first time in ages, but especially by Chris. Maybe it was because we were becoming best friends. Maybe it was that weird sexual energy between us—that mutual attraction we had to ignore. I wrapped my arms around his waist and sobbed violently into his shoulder. He smelled of residual shaving cream mixed with heavy-duty cleansers. And he was warm. So warm.
“Is it about the anniversary party?” he asked, pulling away, brushing my tears away with his thumb.
“That’s a big part of it. I just can’t bear the thought of showing up alone. Chris, I can’t.”
“Remind me why this boyfriend of yours can’t go.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I just said that to April to get her off my back. He has something pretty big that night.” I blew my nose on a scratchy paper towel.
“I wish I could take you.” He looked so helpless.
“I know. It’s okay. I’m going to be okay,” I said, hoping if I said it enough times, it would be true.
“Is there something else?” He lifted my chin. I was surprised by the tenderness in his touch.
I looked away. I hated lying to him about Adrien. “It’s a lot of stuff. Knowing I’m going to have to see John again. Last time was torture. I wanted to die…And well, girl stuff,” I said, unable to tell the whole truth.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said, squeezing me, holding me close again. I nodded, tears filling my eyes again. Would I ever stop crying? I was turning into Niagara Falls. “But you’re a tough girl. You’re going to be fine. I promise.” He brushed my hair away from my face and kissed my forehead.
A kiss? Another first with Chris.
***
Abby,
Remember when you went to junior prom with Eric Barley and I didn’t speak to you for two weeks? I couldn’t believe you’d agree to go with the guy I’d been crushing on our entire junior year. You knew it would hurt me, but you went anyway. And I was forced to go with Timothy Smith. Ughh. I still remember his slimy wet hands and the way he burped in my ear while we slow danced. And then remember when I lost your parakeet—what was his name? Bernie? I agreed to take care of him while you and your family went to Florida and I let him out of his cage and he flew out the front door? I remember you were so upset you didn’t talk to me for a week. Well now I would do ANYTHING to take those three weeks back and spend them with you. Time is precious. I know that now. Can’t we bend the rules and spent those three weeks together? Can’t you be with me for just a little while?
Okay, I guess this is also supposed to be a gratitude journal.
Ten things I’m thankful for.
1. Sunsets. I saw this AMAZING one tonight (with that cute boy I was telling you about).
2. Chris. He’s my new best friend. I mean we’re not as close as you and I were—there’s no contest—and no one could ever take your place, you know that. He’s my closest friend these days. He’s really been there for me since you and John deserted me. Not that I’m blaming you for leaving. I know it wasn’t your fault.
3. Indian food. Mmmm…
4. Cameras. That’s a given.
5. You and every minute I got to spend with you.
6. Q-tips. Only you know how much I secretly love cleaning out my ears.
7. Rock music. 1980s rock music specifically.
8. Tiger. Don’t worry, Abby, I’m taking good care of him.
9. Mac and cheese.
10. Forgiveness. I’m finally starting to forgive the man who killed you. I’m reading this powerful book on forgiveness. Actually, Chris loaned me a few books on forgiveness. He snagged them from his mom’s library. (She was molested by her dad, apparently, so she had a lot of forgiving to do of her own.) I don’t know how, but I’m finally forgiving. It’s something I need to do. To heal my wounds before they take over and fester—I’m not going to let this ruin my life. I mean, it’s going to take time—it’s not an overnight process. It’s not easy, but if it gives me some peace, it will be worth it. Happiness is a choice. I’m doing it for me...I’m doing it for you.
***
That night I dreamed of Abby. In it we sat on her leopard-print bedspread, laughing, thumbing through a Rolling Stones magazine, listening to U2.
At first I was happy to see her. I tricked myself into believing she was somehow alive again. It was sunny. The sky unusually blue, the clouds a glowing orange-pink. Strange for midday. It was surreal. Salvador Dali surreal.
“Abby,” I said, “I miss you so much. Don’t ever leave me again. Promise me.”
“You know I can’t make that promise,” she said frowning, touching my arm.
Her words slashed through me like a razor. I ached to be with her. To spend the rest of our lives together, eating frozen burritos, fighting over clothes and boys, going to rock concerts—even when we’re eighty. Just like she said we would. Nothing would change us, she’d said years earlier. Best friends forever.
I reached out to touch her. I grabbed one of the braids of her fiery hair. “I miss everything about you. Even the annoying things. Even the things I once hated.”
She laughed. “So you’ve forgiven me? For stealing John?”
I shook my head, confused. “You didn’t steal John. April did.”
“Are you still mad at me for leaving you? For dying?”
As she spoke, she morphed into Adrien. He sat on the bed, inches away from me, his face screwed up, turmoil and despair in his green eyes. �
�I love you, September, but love is not enough.” He reached across the bed and slid open the nightstand drawer. Inside was a black handgun. He picked it up and cradled it for a moment. A scream stuck in my chest as he placed it under his perfect jaw. “Goodbye, September,” he whispered before pulling the trigger.
17
“Hey September, wake up!” I heard someone say as they shook me out of my sleep. Reluctant, I half opened one eye, overwhelmed by the lacerating sun. Above me I saw Mary’s amused face, her ink-blue hair swinging as she shoved me around. Still in her gray striped pajamas, she looked as grumpy as I felt.
“Ouch. You’re hurting me. Leave me alone, I’m tired,” I grumbled, shoving my pillow over my head.
“You have to get up. That hot guy’s here.”
I sat up abruptly. “Adrien?”
“Yeah, him.”
“What’s he doing here?” I looked at the glowing red numbers on my alarm clock. 9:40.
“I don’t know, but he looks all happy. It’s kind of annoying. And anyway, who just shows up at 9:30 in the morning?” she said as she left the room. Like me, Mary was not a morning person. In fact she usually rolled out of bed at eleven or noon.
My heavy eyelids protested as I forced myself out of bed. What was Adrien doing here? Did he want to hang out again? Maybe he enjoyed our day together as much as I did. Mary said he looked happy. That was a good sign, maybe my plan was working. I grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the shower. I called out, “Mary, tell Adrien I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay, whatever,” she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
“No need, I heard,” Adrien called from the other room. I laughed as I climbed into the shower.
After a quick rinse off, I spent an extra fifteen minutes primping. I put on my favorite blue-green top which complimented my fair skin and a casual brown skirt that matched my brown eyes. I flat-ironed my hair to perfection, brushed my teeth twice and carefully concealed the zit growing on the side on my nose.
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